


Things Forbidden

by LoveChilde



Category: Killjoys (TV)
Genre: How do you torture a masochist?, Introspection, M/M, Non-graphic BDSM, Poor Alvis, Vanilla Kink, hurt/comfort bingo fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:02:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4951102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveChilde/pseuds/LoveChilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The masochist cries out to be hurt; the sadist refuses. Alvis, torn between two very different occasional lovers, is conflicted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Forbidden

**Author's Note:**

> I blame [Hagar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hagar). She got me to watch Killjoys, and she planted the bunny that became this ficlet. Covers my h/c bingo prompt "bruises". 
> 
> I own none of them, no profit is made, I'm not even using the main characters, here. Views expressed within don't actually reflect much about my own views on BDSM.

He goes, even though he thinks it’s a sin. It _feels_ like a sin. But he goes anyway. 

Pree never suggests that one of his workers takes care of it: it’s never even a question. Alvis makes sure he only comes during the quietest times, just before opening or right after closing, when he knows Pree will be available. He doesn’t want to impose, not for this. He always pays, too, out of respect for Pree and because nothing is free in the Quad, especially not sex. Paying makes it clear that sex is all it is, and they both accept that’s how things are between them. And even so, Alvis knows it’s wrong. 

It’s wrong, but he can’t help himself. He knows it’s bad for him, weakens his faith, makes him soft, but the draw is too great, and so he goes to Pree, to seek out comfort he doesn’t deserve. 

It’s not that Pree is soft- not at all. In fact, he’s hard in all the right places. smooth lines of muscle and skin, and his hands and mouth are as skillful as those of any of his sexers. He doesn’t often service clients himself, but Alvis is special, and Pree reminds him of that every so often. Pree isn’t soft, but he’s- gentle. Tender, even, though Alvis hates to think of the word in relation to himself. Pree is careful, skilled, caring, comforting, and all of this makes Alvis weak. It plants doubt in his heart and a yearning in his soul, for something he knows he doesn’t deserve. He doesn’t even deserve these brief interludes. 

They come together quietly, graceful as dancers, light and dark moving together. Pree dictates the pace, controls the motions, always leads, even when Alvis fucks him, which isn’t often. He never allows Alvis to move too fast, too hard. His bed is soft, with clean, smooth sheets, mellow colors, a comforting closeness that’s cosy without being stifling. It makes Alvis wants to stay forever, and as soon as those thoughts arrive, he wants to leave, before they take root, but Pree keeps him still, holds him down gently if he struggles. Pree never hurts him. 

That’s the crux of it, really- Pree never hurts him, and never allows him to hurt himself. When Pree ties him down, it’s with wide strips of fabric that leave no marks, and when he kisses, he doesn’t bite. The only scars he leaves are on Alvis’ mind, on his sinning soul. The only damage is how much Alvis wants more of this, how he keeps coming back for more.

He’s spread out on cool pillows, Pree over him, in him, and Alvis is floating on pleasure, and it’s too good, it’s too easy. It’s breaking his heart.

“Harder, _please_ ,” his voice cracks, chokes with how much he needs this, even though he doesn’t really want Pree to do anything differently, but he knows he should. He must.

And Pree smiles softly, knowing, and kisses the tip of his nose. “No.” 

Pree is in charge. No matter how much Alvis begs, he refuses to hurt him. Sex with Pree is easy, it’s fun, it’s sheer, selfish pleasure. A sin. 

It makes him soft, against his will. He _wants_ it. It spoils him, and the spoiling shows.

***

When Alvis howls at the first kiss of leather, Fancy knows he’s done it again. His eyes are closed, face pressed against the rough wall, but Alvis can hear him sneer. 

“You’ve been playing with whores again, haven’t you? Some martyr you are.” 

He never denies it and never tries to hide it. The whip strikes again and again, merciless, drawing blood, until Alvis finally draws enough of the pain into himself to take it in silence, to accept it as his due punishment. Until he finally stops wanting anything besides this. He’s silent when Fancy fucks him, hard and fast, with no preparation and just not enough lube. He’s silent, and he smiles, serene because he knows he deserves this, he wants this, more than he ever wanted softness and comfort. Fancy’s hands, a killer’s hands, leave marks on Alvis’ skin and purify his soul. As his outside darkens with bruises and blood, Alvis knows he is cleansed inside, freed of his selfish, foolish desires. 

Fancy keeps him waiting, makes him beg for his time and attention, makes him beg to be hurt- but unlike Pree, once Alvis has begged enough, he does hurt him, coldly, efficiently and expertly. Where Pree’s hands stroke, Fancy’s pinch and hit. Fancy never kisses him, but he says filthy, humiliating things. Alvis takes it all in and transforms every insult, every rough edge and painful touch, into ecstasy. It takes him longer, every time he’s been with Pree, to accept the pain peacefully, quietly, to take it in and let it flow through him. It increases the struggle, as the rebellious spark in his soul insists that it could be better, than sex doesn’t _have_ to hurt, that maybe Pree’s way is the better way. After he’s been with Pree, metal bites harder, leather stings more keenly, and the path to inner peace through agony seems steeper and more difficult.

And still, Alvis goes. He’s drawn to both of them, Pree and Fancy, soft and harsh, easy and hard, caring and brutal, and swings between them, helpless. 

***

“Why?” 

Again, he is lying on nice, cool sheets. His body is singing, trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure, while his soul shrivels up in misery. 

“Why what?” Pree leans up on one arm, his other hand stroking lightly up and down Alvis’ side, seeking out bruises left there by Fancy, by others, tracing them out one by one, numbering them. Alvis shudders.

“Why do I keep coming here? Why do I do this to myself?” he feels lost, helpless and hopeless, faithless, and only barely stops himself from curling into Pree’s touch and melting into him. “It’s wrong.”

“It’s not wrong. Only different.” Pree kisses his shoulder, just over a scar, and runs a finger where his lips have been, following a line of raised, silvered tissue. “Sweetie, even martyrs need a break sometimes. You deserve a bit of TLC, everybody does.” 

He doesn’t deserve this, and tells himself that he wants neither tenderness nor care, and certainly not love. As Pree brings him to another blissful climax, he knows that he is lying to himself, and the knowledge is a knife’s edge in his heart. A knife’s edge he welcomes, despite himself.

Later, he asks the same question of Fancy. His voice is raw with barely-stifled screams, his skin mottled with marks he knows he’ll feel for days, and his soul finally, finally soothed into serene acceptance again. But he asks, because he has not been hurt enough yet, perhaps. 

“Why?”

“Because I enjoy it, and because you let me do it, for whatever screwed up reason,” Fancy answers a question Alvis never needed to ask before, because they both already knew the answer. Something hard and narrow strikes again, and Alvis trembles, caught between agony and ecstasy. He squirms, kicking out at Fancy as much as the ropes holding him down allow. 

“You know that’s not what I meant.” 

“I’m not a mind doctor, I don’t know why you go to him, and I don’t care. Normal people don’t have to wonder why they want sex that doesn’t leave marks, you know,” Fancy runs a sharp fingernail down the same path Pree’s hand traced, but unlike Pree he presses down on every bruise, prods them with almost clinical efficiency. Alvis scowls, but doesn’t push for more of an answer; he’s not here for conversation. 

“Let me tell you a story,” Fancy says, and Alvis scowls again, because he’s not here for story-time, either. “It’s an old story about a sadist and a masochist, and it’s short, so listen.” His hand grabs a fist of Alvis’ hair, pulling roughly, twisting his head to make sure Alvis is focused on him. “It goes like this: The masochist cries ‘hurt me’, and the sadist...he refuses.” 

Alvis is silent, not getting the point but getting more than a little annoyed. Fancy continues, though. 

“You _like_ it when I hurt you, don’t you?”

Alvis nods, unashamed. Pain has a sacredness to it, it brings him closer to the divine light, and Fancy helps him to achieve this spiritual release. 

“So, you’re not _really_ suffering. I mean, you hurt, but you want it. Going to play the easy game cuts you up worse than I ever could, though- it’s just another form of suffering.” He must see the blank look in Alvis’ eyes, because he simplifies it further. “What I’m saying, in small words, is that you’re just a masochist. A glutton for suffering. But you knew that already.”

He leaves Alvis tied to the bed; he’ll be able to free himself eventually, at the cost of a wrenched shoulder and some twisted fingers, but he doesn’t even try for a while, reeling from the revelation that explained him in such simple words, left floating behind Fancy as he left.

_”Essentially, you just like to suffer. Not that I object.”_


End file.
